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| THE SCENE IS DEAD. The Eighties Matchbox B-Line Disaster + Ikara colt + The Beatings The ICA, London 03.12.02 At the start of the year Ikara colt and 80’s Matchbox, with a little help from the Parkinsons, embarked on a tour that really announced something new in Britain’s young guitar scene. We got spat on, we got trampled on and we got a microphone in the head courtesy of one Paul Resende esq. and by GOD it felt good and fresh and the absolute opposite of everything we’d had to put up listening to over the last few years (save At The Drive-In). Then some clever fuck came along and gave it a name and thus The Scene With No Name was born horribly scarred and bawling into a world of bored kids up for a little excitement. Then nine months later I find myself at some poncey art gallery witnessing the last rattle and death of that volatile infant. And whose cold dead hands are those grasping at it’s neck? It’s Fashion and it’s The Media and it’s fucking Art Twats in black berets. Firstly this is the worst venue for a gig ever. Sorry Playlouder but an Art Gallery? Terrible idea. Firstly it attracted a whole host of people who shouldn’t be there. What a 34 year old yuppie in a black beret was expecting to see I have no idea. Secondly it made buying a drink a laughable idea, unless you are one of said black beret wearers, who of course are loaded. Bitter, Me? The atmosphere is at best stale. This is not the fault of the bands, and not the fault of the organizers Playlouder.com, because all give it a damn fine shot of making it a good night. The Beatings are their usual rough charming selves, thrusting out skulls ‘n’ coffins B-movie rock n roll with a smirk and a ciggerette and a truckers cap. Ikara colt put out their best performance in a long time, Paul adopting an unusual reserved cool, keeping it together, sharp, tight, focused Am I alone in preferring the ‘colt when they actually finish a set without falling apart? Anyway, Paul looks damn cool and Jon beats the hell out of his bass like a Fairfoull possessed and Claire is terrifically pouty and Dom, is, well Dom – a mad blur of sweat and blood. Moving on to 80’s Matchbox, and Guy McKnight gives us a Christmas message via his sweaty stomach, as he rips off a frankly disturbing Saint Nick suit to reveal a marker penned ‘MERRY XMAS’. Eyes shot through with mains electricity, his bottom jaw qwibbling independently of his skull, he froths forth with epileptic joy ‘Celebrate Your Mother’ and other treats mined from the rock vaults of horror. All three bands are on nipple biting top form. And there really shouldn’t be any room for complaint. So then why did I feel so unmoved and apathetic towards it all? Nine months ago it was these very bands and made me pick up pen and scissors and start Transmission Disorder, and now I can barely raise the energy shout along with ‘Sink Venice’. Maybe I just feel like whatever there was of a scene was hijacked months ago by media types and fashionistas. In short, when, as an honest fan, you’re left ticketless outside in the cold and when you finally score a ticket you find you’re in the minority at a gig full of poseurs, it’s time to bail. That gig was the last salute to a year of shit sweet asskickin rock n roll. But like punk in ’77, the scene is dead, boys. Rachel. |